Insomnium
by Adir Al-Assad
Summary: Insomnium: A Latin word meaning "nightmare," from which "insomnia" is derived. These days, poor Wade Barrett has more than a few reasons to be losing sleep. Following the events of Bragging Rights, Wade is confronted with a recurring nightmare.


**Insomnium**

For the fourth time in four straight nights, Wade Barrett was having that dream again. It was a nightmare as unnerving as it was relentless, and more persistent in the recent days than it had been at the start of things. The dream itself never changed; it was always the same. Each time, Wade found himself wandering in the cold night through an old churchyard. There was a sliver of moon that hung upside-down in the sky like the grin of a Cheshire cat, barely enough to illuminate the tops of snow-covered headstones that jutted up from the uneven ground. It was much darker than it should have been, and the frozen snow that crunched underfoot was deep, but Wade pressed on-not knowing where, exactly, he was going, but somehow knowing the way. It was as though he had been there before (wherever "there" was), even before these nocturnal occurrences had begun. There was a bizarre sense of déjà vu that Wade felt seated deep in the pit of his stomach along with the fear that this, this dream, was more than just that.

Continuing along the frozen path ahead, Wade made his way deftly between two tall, haphazard tombstones and headed for the clearing he already knew would be there. He would pass between the unkempt shrubs that stood on either side of the path that led into the open. Beyond the breach, the way became a gradual incline that eventually stretched to the top of a long hill, at the pinnacle of which sat a lonely mausoleum. The old marble structure sat solitary on the hill like some timeless old sentry keeping watch over the churchyard.

This was always the point in the dream where Wade would wake up, without fail. Never did he venture forward-before he could, his subconscious always delivered him a swift jolt and brought him back to reality. Something, however, felt different this time. Something was off. _Wrong, _thought Wade with sudden lucidity. Standing at the foot of that hill, he felt some unseen force at work, some omnipresent pull that seemed to beckon-no-_compel_ him forward. He took one hesitant step forward, then another, then another. With what felt like a great mental effort, he tried to tell his dream-mind to tell his actual-mind to wake him up and _now_, because this didn't feel right at _all_-but the effort was in vain as he moved on, seemingly not of his own volition as he started the steep climb up the hill.

The snow was deeper here, Wade noticed, as his boots sank mid-calf into the frozen ground. Somehow the air seemed clearer, quieter. It was so silent and still Wade imagined that, if it had been snowing, he would have heard each individual flake as it hit the ground. He couldn't help but find it inexplicably unsettling.

From somewhere beyond the other side of the hill, the melancholy sound of a tolling church bell carried once, twice, reaching his ears on the winter wind.

A shudder went through Wade bodily like a ripple in his psyche, and it stopped him cold where he stood. His gaze pinned itself to the crypt on the hill above, and he felt his stomach twist involuntarily.

What was up there? What the devil was _up_ there? And why in the name of God above was he so keen on finding out, when every logical bone in Wade's body was willing him toward flight (turn around, you dolt, go back, go _back_)?

He took yet another apprehensive step forward. The moment he did, a warning voice spoke up from behind and nearly startled Wade out of his skin.

"I really wouldn't be doing that, son."

Wade spun around swift as he could in the deep snow, all quick instinct and ready reflexes. The sight ahead of him, however, was one that genuinely gave him pause. A man stood there before him, the very first soul Wade had encountered through his countless journeys through countless dreams. The man was tall, just shy of Wade's considerable height. He wore an expensive-looking white suit paired with a white Stetson hat, and the moonlit backdrop of the winter landscape behind afforded him an almost ethereal appearance. There was a strange air of familiarity about him that went further than Wade possibly having seen him somewhere before, though Wade was certain the two of them had never met.

"Wade Barrett?" The man spoke his name with off-putting ease.

"Well, now, that depends," answered Wade haughtily, hands coming to rest on his hips in a challenging stance. "Who, exactly, is asking?"

"Take it easy, kid," the man in white said, with the ghost of a smirk playing at his features. There was a pronounced twang to his words; Wade guessed it to be Texan, or something of the like. "You got 'hothead' written all over that smug English face of yours," the man informed Wade, "and believe me. I ain't the one you need to be worried about out here."

"Who are you?" Wade demanded.

"Name's John Bradshaw Layfield. You can call me Bradshaw."

"Right." Wade relaxed, if only slightly. "I don't suppose you can tell me why you're here, then."

"Well, it's real simple, son. I'm here to keep you from making what some might call a grave mistake. Pardon the pun."

"You're here because you think I need protecting?"

"No, I'm here because I _know_ you do."

"Well, I sincerely appreciate your concern, but I can assure you, Mr. Bradshaw. I do not require your assistance, nor anyone else's for that matter."

"Says the man who single-handedly took out John Cena with the help of five or six other guys. Sure. I can buy that."

"All right then, smart guy," Wade fired back with a sneer. "Since you're so wise, answer me this. What is the significance of this place, and why do I keep ending up here? Why do I keep having this same bloody dream night after night?"

"Look around you, Wade," Bradshaw said, sweeping one white-gloved hand wide for emphasis. "This place is winter and death, blanketed in coldness and darkness. A landscape as silent as dead as the grave. The unfortunate souls of the departed are all around us here, and _you_, you are here because _he_ wants you here."

That sudden, prickling sensation was back, raising the fine hairs at the nape of Wade's neck. An involuntary shudder worked its way through his muscles.

"Who keeps bringing me here?" he demanded, his voice not nearly as steady as he'd have liked it to be. "Tell me, Bradshaw."

"You're a smart kid," Bradshaw replied. "You already know the answer to that." He drew in a deep breath, as if composing himself to deliver a piece of terrible news. His eyes lifted, coming to rest upon the apex of that looming, foreboding hill. "He is called," continued Bradshaw, his voice now verging on a whisper, "by many names. Demon. Reaper. Chaser of Souls."

Wade's eyes went wide.

"You're talking about the Under-" He only got as far as that, as Bradshaw stepped forward quickly and shoved a hand over Wade's mouth.

"Are you nuts, boy?" hissed Bradshaw, glancing around in alarm. "You can't speak his name out loud. Not _here_. Man has a nasty habit of showing up when he's invoked."

"How shall I refer to him, then?" inquired Wade snidely. "'He Who Shall Not Be Named?'"

"I don't care what you call him. Just don't call him over here," Bradshaw shot back.

"Mr. Bradshaw, I'm not sure under what premise you are operating here, but the last time I saw the individual in question-" he paused, directing a patronizing glance at Bradshaw, "he was at the bottom of a hole six-foot deep, with dirt raining down upon his body. It is my understanding that he has not been seen or heard from since."

"There's an old country song I heard once. You mighta heard it. Johnny Cash sang it. But there's a line in that song that goes, 'there ain't no grave can hold my body down.' You can bury a man alive. Hell, you can bury him ten times over if you want, but he don't give a damn. You can't kill somethin' that's already got one foot in the grave."

"I am not afraid of any man," declared Wade, lifting his head defiantly. "Not living, dead or otherwise."

"You should be. Believe you me, you should be terrified." There was a haunted look in Bradshaw's eyes as he went on. "Once in my lifetime, I was as young and headstrong as you. Every ambition I had was driven by greed and fame. I wanted to get to the top. I didn't care who I stepped on or what I had to do to get there, long as I got there. There was no fight I wasn't willing to jump into. Pride wouldn't let me walk away when Lord knows I should have." He looked squarely at Wade. "The biggest mistake I ever made in my life was tangling with the Deadman. You don't understand what he's capable of, Wade. He ain't _made_ of the same things mortal men are made of. His powers are not of this world. And once he's got you in his sights, ain't no force of nature on this earth gonna deter him from coming after you."

"He's here," Wade murmured, more to himself than to Bradshaw. "That's what's on the other side of the hill, isn't it? He's up there, waiting for me."

"This is how it starts," Bradshaw said quietly. "First, he gets inside your head. He'll destroy your mind before he destroys your body and strips you of the very mortal soul that gives you life. Wade, you listen to me, and listen good. A man who dances with the Devil always loses. Sooner or later, he's going to come to you. He's going to challenge you. And for the love of God, son, you cannot accept."

"You expect me to just walk away, then."

"If you're half as smart as I hope you are, you will." Bradshaw stepped forward, placing one hand firmly on Wade's shoulder. "Turn back, Wade. Turn and walk away from this place while you still can. It might not be too late for you."

A cold wind rushed over their bodies, barreling down over the landscape from the top of the valley. The distant bell was tolling again, its somber sound echoing hollowly through the night. Once. Twice. Three times.

"You need to go, now." There was urgency in Bradshaw's tone as he stepped forward again, both hands on Wade's shoulders now. "You need to wake up, Wade. Now. _Wake up_."

"Wade? Wade! Wake _up_."

A strong hand shoved Wade's side and Wade started, sitting up in bed with a gasp. The small lamp on the bedside table was on, and the man beside him in bed was peering at him intently, eyes wide with worry. "Babe, are you all right?" asked Justin, dragging a hand through his already sleep-disheveled hair. "You looked like you were having a terrible dream."

"Not _a_ terrible dream, _the_ terrible dream. The same bloody dream I've been having since..._fuck _all." He collapsed back onto the pillows with a heavy sigh. "It makes sense now."

"What?" When Wade didn't answer, Justin frowned. "You know, you kicked me twice and elbowed me in the ribs while you were sleeping. Since this is affecting my sleeping habits, too, I believe I have a right to know." Wade scowled and shook his head. "Baby, _tell_ me." Justin wrapped both arms around Wade and pulled him against him so that Wade's head rested against his chest.

"It's nothing," Wade murmured into the warm, bare flesh against his cheek, reveling in the feel of it as an afterthought. It was a stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving place he had been before, even if only in a dream, and he was already working to forget it.

"Liar," Justin accused gently. His fingers smoothed Wade's dark hair back from his face soothingly. "You haven't slept decently in weeks, Wade. I'm starting to worry."

"So am I," Wade replied grimly.

"Wade, what-"

"It's him, Justin." Justin blinked.

"Who?"

"The Undertaker." For a split second, Wade regretted even speaking the name aloud, as if doing so would have caused the man to miraculously materialize right there in the hotel room. The notion in itself was absolutely absurd, Wade knew, but he cringed inwardly nevertheless.

"Are you sure?" Justin asked, as neutrally as possibly, but Wade could hear the slightest tinge of concern in his voice. "Did you see him in your dream?"

"Not directly, but he was there. I think I could feel him." Wade paused. "This dream, Justin, it was different. I got to the part where it usually cuts off, and I wake up. Only this time, I didn't. Something told me to keep going, so I did. There was a man in a white suit who appeared to stop me. He told me the Undertaker was coming after me, and that he would challenge me. And under no circumstances should I accept."

"You don't think this is just a dream, do you?" Justin's hand ran idly up and down the back of Wade's neck. "You don't suppose your subconscious is giving you these dreams because you feel some sort of guilt for what happened at Bragging Rights, do you? I mean, the Nexus did bury the man alive."

"No," Wade answered. "I think it goes deeper than that."

"Maybe it's time we give your higher power a call," suggested Justin. "Tell him you'd like to know what the next step in his 'bigger picture' is. Surely he'll know what to do."

"I'll call Hunter in the morning." He paused for a pensive moment. "Gabriel, I need you to promise me something right now."

"Anything, Wade."

"The other members of the Nexus are not to be told of these dreams I've been having. That is a direct order, am I understood?"

"Of course. I wouldn't tell a soul. Not even Slater." His fingers stroked over Wade's hair again. "Now, I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"Try to sleep."

"I'll try." He made a move to roll back to his side of the bed, but Justin held him where he was.

"No, you stay right there. I've got you." Wade didn't protest; instead, he rested his head back against Justin's chest and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be held. "No matter what happens, Wade, I'll protect you. The Nexus will protect you. I'll make sure of it. Now try to get some rest."

As Justin was reaching for the lamp on the bedside table, Wade caught his hand.

"Wait," he said. "Please, leave the light on."

Justin didn't protest.

Long after he had fallen asleep, Wade lay there awake, listening to the steady, even sounds of Justin's breathing. With a clear head, he tried to put together some semblance of a plan of action. To get Hunter involved at this point was not an option. Wade was not about to tell Justin, nor the others, that the actions resulting in the burial of the Undertaker by the Nexus were not, indeed, part of their higher power's plan as he had led them to believe. No, it appeared that Wade was on his own.

There were no easy answers. All he could do now was wait.


End file.
